The Last Good Night
by cyn21
Summary: It always bothered me that none of the friends ever understood the tragedy of what happened to Mitchell, what drove him to the bloody violence of the Box Tunnel 20 Massacre. Not that anything would excuse what he and Daisy did, but no one ever seemed to want to try to understand how it happened. This is my attempt to explain and give him the farewell I thought he deserved.


The Last Good Night

_Oh, all the comrades that e'er I had,_  
_They're sorry for my going away,_  
_And all the sweethearts that e'er I had_  
_They'd wish me one more day to stay_,  
_But since it falls unto my lot_  
_That I should rise and you should not_,  
_I'll gently rise and softly call_  
_Good night and joy be with you all._

\- _The Parting Glass_\- Irish folk song

It shouldn't happen this way.

The three of them stood there in total silence, as the ash settled, and they were all stricken with the same thought.

It shouldn't be possible that any individual should still be a vision of beauty as his body dissipated into nothingness. It seemed a violation of the natural order of things, but there it was, regardless.

That was how they would all remember John Mitchell - dying, crumbling, wearing the faintest, barely-there smile, dark eyes aglow with affection and gratitude, and still stunningly, painfully beautiful.

Annie and George and Nina knew that it was unnatural, but it was true nevertheless, and none of them would ever be able to forget it.

The smile was gone now. The air was extraordinarily still, and the only remnant of the man who'd stood before them just moments ago was a small mound of pale ash settling to the floor at their feet. They looked down for a moment before turning as one to face the tall, slender individual standing behind them, his face cold and sculpted and just slightly tinged with surprise.

"An Old One," Mitchell had called him, something in his voice indicating that it was more than a descriptive title. More like the name of a deity from some forgotten civilization, or a force of nature.

George stood very tall as he regarded the vampire with a level, unflinching stare. "I think you've got a fight on your hands," he said easily.

Wyndham regarded them in silence for a few seconds, his hands clasped before him. Then he huffed a small sigh. "Now that was . . . unfortunate," he said finally, his voice flat and without inflection. "For John, of course." Then he smiled, and Annie thought she'd never seen anything more menacing during the course of her life - or after it. "But more so for you."

It was barely a whisper, but somehow even more of a threat for the lack of volume.

"We'll talk later, shall we?" he continued before turning to go.

The three watched him, all eager to see the last of him, anxious to be left to mourn the loss that they were only just beginning to recognize.

But it was not to be; not quite yet.

Wyndham paused as he reached the door and tilted his head as he settled a speculative gaze on each of them in turn, looking as if he'd just been struck with an unexpected idea.

They would realize later that he had had an epiphany, had seized upon a new weapon in his determination to terrorize and break them.

He wielded it well, proving that though he had long since left his own humanity behind him, he still understood how to inflict maximum damage on his victims.

"It occurs to me," he said, with a slow smile, "that John never told you what really happened - what caused the bloody rampage that your tabloids refer to as 'the Box Tunnel 20 Massacre'. Am I right?"

When none of them spoke up, his smile grew wider. "Silly question, of course. Mitchell was always one to blame himself, to carry the weight of the world on those beautiful, young shoulders. He wouldn't explain what drove him to such violence. He wouldn't make you complicit by expecting you to understand his motives."

"That's bollocks," said Nina firmly. "Nothing could excuse that. Nothing could . . ."

"Of course not," replied Wyndham, still smiling, "but it's an interesting footnote, I think. Did none of you ever wonder why Mitchell had been so pre-occupied in the weeks prior to the disaster? Did he never tell you what was keeping him so busy? No? Well, let me just fill you in. Around the same time that he got involved with the lovely Lucy Jaggat, he was investing long hours and massive effort in developing a kind of Bloodsuckers Anonymous. With a few old friends, he'd organized the vampires of the area in a kind of support group."

He paused then and shook his head. "If it hadn't been so ridiculous, I might have been just a little bit impressed. It's never been done, you see, and, of course, there's no chance that it would have succeeded for long. The vampire gene wouldn't allow it, but - for a few weeks, maybe a month or two - he'd actually managed to pull it off. He'd convinced the group to stop feeding live. I think he'd actually begun to believe that, eventually, they might be able to go cold turkey, to give up blood altogether. Really astonishing, wouldn't you say?"

It was Annie who stepped forward, her eyes huge and wet. "Why wouldn't he have told us? Why would . . ."

"That should be obvious, dear Annie. He didn't want to risk disappointing you. Silly of him, of course, since he was doomed to failure. But there you are. That's what he was doing, and that's why the betrayal hurt him so much."

"What betrayal?" That was George, who didn't want to ask, but couldn't help doing so.

"Dear Lucy and her rabid Christian companions - the very same ones who tried to murder the two of you and managed to send Annie to Purgatory - knew what he was doing and that there was a meeting scheduled at the old funeral home, and they planted explosives in the place. Bombs that were meant to kill Mitchell and everyone else on the premises. And mostly, they succeeded. Mitchell only survived because one of his oldest friends pushed him to safety, just before the blast, more or less dying in his place. As far as we know, there were at least thirty-two of them who died that night. Thirty-two souls, all friends of Mitchell, who had allowed him to convince them to give up their blood lust and try to co-exist with humanity. Ironic, isn't it, that in the end, they all died for their efforts?"

He paused again and examined each of their faces, and his smile was bright with satisfaction, as he leaned forward and spoke again, voice silken and heavy with nuance. "Now what do you suppose Mitchell felt when he figured out what had happened?"

"That's what he never told us," said Nina, her eyes haunted. "That's what changed him."

"No," whispered Annie, her voice thick with tears. "Please, no."

"Sorry," replied the Old One, "but it's true. Every word. And I'm told, by someone who spoke to dear little Daisy before she died, that Mitchell expressed a basic truth very succinctly when they were debating their revenge. 'They're the monsters,' he said. 'Not us.' I think maybe there's some truth in that. Don't you?"

With a last smile that was almost a smirk, he nodded toward each of them, obviously satisfied that he had accomplished what he'd wanted to do. He'd taken their sorrow over the loss of a friend and managed to magnify it a hundred fold with the knowledge of what Mitchell had endured.

He closed the door behind him, leaving a silence too heavy to be borne.

It was Annie who sank to her knees first, suddenly unable to remain upright. "Why?" she whispered. "Why didn't he tell us?"

Nina drew a deep breath. "Because - in the end - it didn't matter. Nothing could excuse what he did - what they did. Nothing could . . ."

"And what about what Lucy did? Lucy and her friends. Were they innocent?" George stared out into the darkness beyond the window before turning to slump to the floor and reach out a tentative hand to touch the small pile of ash that was all that remained of his best friend. "They butchered over thirty of his friends, and made him feel responsible."

"Not friends, George. Not innocent people. Vampires. It's not the same. Surely you don't . . ."

Annie raised a hand, silencing Nina with the gesture. "Granted, Nina. There was no legitimate excuse for what Mitchell and Daisy did, but . . . they were driven mad with grief, don't you think? Think for a minute about how you felt, when you found out what Lucy and the good reverend were actually trying to do to us, and maybe you can find some small understanding in your heart for how they must have felt."

"You're making excuses for him," snapped Nina.

"Why would we do that?" asked George, suddenly more weary than he'd ever been in his life. "He never tried to do it for himself, did he? Just think about it, Nina. A woman that he trusted - maybe had even begun to love - takes the information he provided and uses it to massacre his friends. Would you - would any of us be able to endure that and not hunger for some kind of revenge?"

"But still . . ."

George and Annie looked up at the exact same moment, their eyes meeting and sharing identical thoughts without a word being spoken. "Yes," George said finally, with a soft sigh. "But still."

He would say no more, and neither would Annie, both knowing that any attempt to express the anguish they shared would be pointless. Nina would be sympathetic, would try to help them through their grief, but she would never really share it, or even completely comprehend it. She would never understand what Mitchell had been to them - more than a friend, more than a companion, more even than a soul mate. In the end, after all was said and done and despite the nature of his sins, Mitchell had been a good man, caught up in a no-win scenario. Nina would never understand that.

She had never loved John Mitchell, and she would never grasp that each of them had lost something irreplaceable when he'd faded from their lives.

Mitchell had died, but he had not done so alone. He had taken with him a piece of the hearts of the two people who had loved him best.

Nothing would ever be quite the same again.

After a time, George and Nina decided to retire for the night, leaving Annie alone with her thoughts and her memories. She rose then and moved into the kitchen where she found a small ceramic urn - only slightly larger than a sugar bowl - into which she carefully scooped the tiny mound of ashes that comprised the total residue of the body of John Mitchell.

It was remarkably little to symbolize such a long lifetime; it was remarkably little to represent the man who had claimed her heart, but it was all she had left of him. There were, of course, no photos to stir the memories, no images caught on film or tape, but she realized abruptly that she wouldn't need them.

He was gone, and, for Mitchell and all others like him, there would be no door, no afterlife. But he would, nevertheless, live on. She would need no reminder, as that smile - that lovely, enigmatic, beautiful smile - would live forever in her heart.

The end.


End file.
